‘With or without the mittens?’
The sergeant left without giving Honey an answer.
Doherty grinned what would be his last grin of the day. The crime had turned serious. He had no prime suspect.
Holding his gaze, Honey slowly stripped off the bags as though they were elbow-length evening gloves.
‘Let’s put this little episode behind us, shall we? Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. How was she killed, where, when and who are the suspects? Hmm? I need to have some details before Casper comes in here demanding I march off and arrest someone.’
‘If he’d like to suggest who we should arrest, it would make my job a lot easier.’
‘I think he favours the wardrobe mistress.’
Doherty raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean she’s got the strongest motive?’
‘No. He just doesn’t like the costume she gave him.’
Chapter Six
Casper St John Gervais, chairman of the Bath Hotels Association, waylaid them on their way to the scene of the crime. He pulled Honey to one side.
‘I don’t think I need to tell you how important it is that this is wrapped up post-haste. Do you realize how often movies are made in Bath? Do you realize how much money they bring in?’
Of course she did. Tons. The novels of Jane Austen were filmed and re-filmed ad infinitum, plus other classic historical novels and bawdy romps like Tom Jones, Moll Flanders, and Fanny Hill. If anyone wanted genuine eighteenth-century surroundings, they came to Bath. It was like living on a giant film set.
Casper went on to emphasize that Hollywood production companies would be wary of decamping to a place where their leading lady might get bumped off.
Honey sighed. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t her they were pissed off with. Perhaps they were sick to the back teeth with Jane Austen. In which case, I sympathize.’
Casper’s limpid blue eyes widened as though they’d become full to the brim with water. ‘Don’t be facetious, Honey! I don’t believe you dislike Jane Austen.’
‘It’s true. Too slow. Too insipid.’
Casper gasped. Instant speechlessness.
Doherty dragged her away. ‘Naughty girl! So cruel!’ he tutted, but grinned as he did so.
‘I was being honest.’
‘So you don’t like Pride and Prejudice?’
‘My mother does. It’s the britches. They’re very tight. Women like tight britches. It brings out the whore in them.’
‘Hmm. I might get myself a pair.’
‘Well, that should brighten the day.’
Martyna Manderley was the only star in the film with her own trailer. Everyone else had a dressing room in the big house, and the extras had their ex-London bus to pile on to.
Doherty had been handed an envelope containing photographs of the victim. Coming to a halt outside the trailer, he took the opportunity to look at them, though only briefly.
‘Grim?’ asked Honey.
‘They won’t make the centrefold of Hello! magazine, that’s for sure.’
Slipping them back into the envelope, they entered the trailer. A family of eight could live comfortably inside and the fittings were luxurious. The upholstery was a soft shade of spearmint. The carpet was white. The whole interior had been customized; bathroom complete with full-size bath, gold-plated taps, and a separate shower cubicle. An automatic atomizer perfumed the air at frequent intervals. The atomizer was portable. It was sitting on the floor next to a fan heater and beneath a six-foot-long dressing table complete with make-up lights. A wall-mounted mirror ran the full length of the ledge. Tubs, jars and bottles of perfume sat in a sea of blood.
Doherty took a photograph from the brown envelope and passed it to her. It showed Martyna Manderley slumped over her dressing table.
‘Stabbed with a hatpin.’
‘Ouch!’ said Honey. ‘We need to find out who left that script on the chair.’
He nodded. ‘Quite right. Questions have to be asked. I’ll start with you. Who did you see in the immediate area?’
Honey knitted her eyebrows and tried to picture the scene. She recalled empty chairs to one side of her with a gap in-between. A few people had been seated in the row in front of her and a few people standing up behind had been getting organized to sit down. Who else? What else?
‘Whose fingerprints were on the script – besides mine, that is?’
‘Those of Martyna Manderley of course. We haven’t collated all the rest yet. There’s bound to be plenty. Scripts get passed around and checked, alterations are made, and Martyna also had a prompt who read the script while she recited her lines. The prompt also sat at the side sometimes.’
‘Have we – sorry – your lot questioned the prompt?’
‘My DS has. He’s very keen. As you saw earlier,’ he said, a lopsided grin sending a twinkle to his eyes. ‘She was popping a couple of throat lozenges at the time. Martyna had been getting her to read the script out loud. She was seen taking the lozenges with a cup of hot coffee while cuddled up to one of the director’s assistants. She didn’t like Martyna, but she said she didn’t kill her. Apparently Martyna shouted a lot. I understood she started today by shouting at you. What was all that about?’
Honey outlined the whole scene.
Doherty picked up a copy of Hello! and flicked to the feature on Martyna Manderley and her fiancé, Brett Coleridge, multimillionaire and man about town.
Will they be Mr and Mrs Perfect? ran the headline.
‘Well, they won’t get the chance to find out,’ said Honey. ‘That’s sad.’
Doherty didn’t appear to be listening. He was thinking out loud.
‘Why was the script left there? Why take a bloodstained script anyway?’
‘Dropping it in a hurry; found by someone else and left there, or left there to incriminate somebody else.’
‘That’s a little far-fetched, but hell, what else do I have?’ said Doherty.
They continued to sniff around. Doherty was doing this literally.
‘Smells strong in here.’
‘That thing,’ said Honey, pointing to the air-freshening atomizer which had fallen on to its side beneath the fitted dressing table. A portable fan heater sat next to it. ‘It’s supposed to keep the air prettily perfumed. Though it was a strange place to put it, down there next to the fan heater.’
‘Smelly feet?’ Doherty suggested.
Honey did a few poses in front of the mirror. Jean Harlow. Marilyn Monroe.
‘Movie stars don’t have smelly feet,’ she reliably informed him while fixing her hair. ‘They have sponsors providing them with every luxury item you can think of to make them look, sound, and smell absolutely ravishing. Including foot powder.’
Thrusting her hands in her pockets so she wouldn’t be tempted to touch anything, Honey wandered from one area of the trailer to another. Everything was pretty tidy considering a murder had just taken place. There were no books. No magazines except for the one they had looked at. And no script.
‘It must have been the only one she had, but why take it?’
Doherty shrugged. ‘We’re setting up an incident room over the road. Someone must have seen the murderer going into her trailer. No one leaves this site until I’m satisfied with everything.’
‘Does that include extras?’
‘Of course it does.’
‘Including members of my family?’
Doherty froze and appeared to be holding his breath. ‘Your mother’s here as an extra?’
‘’Fraid so. She’s an incurable romantic. You should know that by now. She’s got herself a muslin gown and a straw bonnet.’
‘And there I was thinking that you and I could star in our own skin flick.’
‘Not in this weather, we can’t.’
‘We should have gone away.’
‘Let’s get this put to bed first,’ Honey retorted.
If he wasn’t involved in a murder case, Doherty would have responded with something like, ‘Then we can get to bed.
’ But he always turned serious when the occasion demanded.
Dragging his thoughts back to the job in hand, the series of interviews, and the taking of statements, he said, ‘I’ve got work to do. I’ll catch up with you later – if you’re free. I’d invite you to my place, but I don’t know when I’ll be there. Do you mind if I call round?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Whenever you like.’
The smell of frying bacon drifted anew and was now joined by the unmistakable mouth-watering aroma of cottage pie. Cooked mince in a thick gravy with onions, carrots, and a topping of fluffy mashed potato. The catering truck was doing a roaring trade. Honey’s stomach rumbled. Her eyes stayed fixed on the truck.
Doherty hadn’t invited her to sit in on the interviews, and she hadn’t asked him if she could.
She looked over at the lovely Regency house they’d just come out of. The Circus was aptly named, as famous as the
Royal Crescent
and an architectural gem. Built by John Palmer, three sets of eleven houses formed a circle overlooking a green island. Honey turned her head a full 180 degrees to the trailer. The house and the trailer were opposite each other. Directly in front of her, halfway between the two, was the catering truck. She double-checked. There was no doubt about it. The big old truck dispensing hot food and drink was slap bang in the middle of the site and had the best view possible of Martyna Manderley’s trailer. The guy running it had to have seen something.
Chapter Seven
The cast, including the extras, had been ordered not to change out of their costumes. They stood in groups, sipping from plastic cups. One particular extra was standing slightly aloof. Honey headed straight for him.
‘Casper!’ She spoke breezily. He looked as though he needed cheering up. ‘How are you feeling?’
He was wearing a strained, long-suffering expression. His jaw was tightly clenched.
‘This is a totally unpalatable situation,’ he said, and followed it with a pursing of lips, already blue with cold. ‘Look at this dreadful outfit!’
Honey buried her gloved hands into her coat pockets and her mirth into her throat. This was indeed a moment to be remembered. Casper was still wearing the costume of a man who sweeps up horse droppings for a living.
‘Shouldn’t be too long now.’
‘I should hope not,’ he snapped impatiently.
‘The police have to do their job. We really can’t have the city’s reputation besmirched like this. The culprit has to be caught – and quickly.’
She had used a similar line to the one Casper himself often used when a serious crime had been committed. It was usually him prodding her to get a move on. She made an attempt to massage his severely dented ego.
His large head receded into the high coat collar. His jaw set like cement. Someone from costume came to take a photograph.
‘The show must go on,’ she said brightly.
Casper played Mr Curmudgeonly to her Miss Bright Shiny Day.
‘Why?’
The young woman managed to retain her cheery smile. ‘Filming is going ahead as planned despite the present difficulties.’
‘It’s a murder, not a difficulty,’ Casper pointed out.
Miss Bright Shiny Day went on undeterred. ‘We need to record the exact details of you and your costume so we get it right for the next time.’
Casper pulled himself up to his full height. His voice rolled like thunder. ‘There will be no next time!’
Nose in the air, chin hard set and jutting forward, he stalked off across the road.
The young woman stared after him, her camera hanging slack in her hands.
Honey shrugged. She’d always known Casper loved theatricals. Now she knew things weren’t as simple as that. Casper saw himself as a leading man, or at least as someone cultured and electrifying. The only cultivating done by men who swept up horse shit for a living was the growing of roses and rhubarb!
‘Cup of coffee, miss?’
The voice came from above. The counter of the catering truck protruded out at chin level. Honey looked up. She couldn’t see the face attached to the voice, just a pair of black hairy arms leading up to broad shoulders. The rest of him was hidden by height and shadow. If she tilted her head back she could just about see his shiny red chin and cheeks. She presumed they were the result of the steam forever rising in front of his face. She stood on tiptoes and tilted back her head so she could see him better.
She thanked him and watched as he changed aprons.
He saw her looking. ‘Got to keep up appearances. Won’t let anything get in the way of my standards.’
‘I assume your standards are very high?’ she asked.
He leaned forward. ‘Extremely so! The stars of stage and screen have congratulated me on my Welsh rarebit. And that famous Dame What’s-her-name said that my flapjacks were the best she’d ever tasted. And as for Kevin Costner, well, knight he ain’t, but he’s a gent for all that. Praised my Thai curry beefburgers up to high heaven, he did. Yes, indeed! If you want good grub on a film set, dial up Dick Richards. See?’
He pointed to the red lettering above the open serving hatch. ‘Richard Richards. Caterer to the stars!’ As he leaned outwards, she saw his full features; dark bushy eyebrows and big bouncy black hair streaked with grey. ‘Call me Dick!’
He wore a white-spotted red handkerchief around his neck which gave him a kind of Romany look. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he’d brought out a violin from beneath the steaming pans and set to with a touch of Vivaldi.
‘Nice to meet you, Richard. My name’s Honey. Honey Driver.’
‘Ah, yes. As in honeypot. Made by bees. Honey does you good. I use melted honey with a touch of maple syrup poured over my breakfast pancakes.’
This honey thing was going on a bit. ‘My real name’s Hannah, but Honey’s more familiar.’
He didn’t seem to hear. ‘My bacon is best Wiltshire. Did you notice that?’
Honey said that she’d only had toast and butter. On seeing his crestfallen expression, she felt obliged to comment that the bread was the freshest she’d ever tasted.
‘I’ve catered to the best; some of the greatest stars of screen, stage and television. They all praise my cooking. I’m the king of the catering wagon. That’s what they say.’
Flourishing the fresh apron like a matador’s cape, ‘King’ Richard tied the strings of the clean one and threw the dirty one into a dark corner.
Honey found herself wondering if the biggest drama queen on set was here in the food truck. As a means to an end, a little flattery might not go amiss.
‘You must be as good as you say you are. I’ve heard no complaints from anyone.’
‘And why should you?’ he demanded indignantly.
Not quite the right thing to say, she realized.
His hands made a thwacking sound as he rested them on the counter. He glared at her fiercely. ‘Who did you hear complaining? Tell me. Tell me right now!’
‘I didn’t hear any complaints. Only praise. Honestly.’
His eyes were coldly piercing – odd really seeing as they were brown. Brown was usually warm, like velvet. His were like frozen mud.
It was definitely time to change tack and try a bit of buttering up. She cleared her throat and took a swig of coffee. ‘I hear they’re carrying on with a new leading lady. Seeing as you know so many famous people, I wondered whether you had any idea who might be in the running.’
First-class buttering up appeared to work. The narrowed eyes flickered. The face defrosted. ‘Yep!’ he said at the same time as pouring himself a cup of dark brown coffee. ‘Too right I do! Penelope Petrie. Jumped at the chance, so I hear.’
Honey was appalled. ‘They didn’t give her time to mull it over?’
‘No. Why should they? Anyway, Penny Petrie’s an OK kind of girl. Loves my cottage pie, she does. Mind you, she can eat stuff like that till the cows come ’ome. Never puts on an ounce.’
‘Wish I could eat stodge an
d not put on a pound.’
Whoops! She realized her mistake when the frozen-mud look came back with a vengeance. Time to back-pedal – and fast. ‘What I mean to say is that traditional food really fills you up on a cold day. Do you know her well, this Penelope Petrie? Is she a friend of yours?’
Smiling and speaking as though he had real clout and real connections in movie-making seemed to work.
‘That’s the acting world for you. Dog eat dog.’
Honey judged it best to keep off the subject of food. Dick Richards was definitely a bit touchy on that score.
‘I’m glad I’m only an amateur,’ she said as affably as she could. She wasn’t au fait with the world of film production, but she’d seen plenty of Hollywood gossip about too many actors and too few parts leading to blood-curdling rivalry.
‘You’re in a good spot here,’ she said, getting back to the job in hand. She peered in the direction of the house across the road, then turned and looked more significantly at the trailer. Yes. She was right. The truck marked the halfway stage between the two.
A man wearing a muffler was finalizing the tying of tape around the trailer. Honey recognized him as Detective Sergeant Ali Fleming. The voice of Dick Richards boomed down at her.
‘If you’re asking did I see anything, well, yes! Of course I did. I’m thinking about stepping forward to give a statement.’
‘I should have introduced myself further,’ said Honey, sensing she had an opening here. ‘I liaise with the police on behalf of Bath Hotels Association. Would you mind telling me what you saw?’
‘Well … I am a bit busy. Just ’cause there’s been a murder don’t mean to say I can shut down, you know.’
Sensing she could steal a march on Doherty – she hadn’t forgiven him for the plastic bag incident – she jumped straight in.
‘It doesn’t have to be here,’ she blurted. ‘We could meet somewhere. Perhaps I could buy you lunch.’
Richards eyed her speculatively. ‘Where?’
‘Somewhere nice! Somewhere that would suit your palate. I wouldn’t take you to any old place, not an experienced chef like you.’
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 4
